He could hardly believe his eyes when he spotted it. It couldn't be, could it? Peeking up out of the hard, packed dirt was a small, defiant daffodil. A symbol of the coming spring. Carter stared at it, a small smile forming for the first time in weeks.

He marveled at how it sat beneath the guards' tower. It had to have been planted, he decided. There's no way it popped up out of nowhere.

But there it was, taking root and blooming despite the still cold air and the snow that threatened every night into the morning. He had a sudden urge to remove it from this dreary place where no bit of pleasantness - of complete beauty - ought to be. However, that would kill it - not to mention the flak he'd catch from the guys and the senior officer.

Still that wouldn't stop him from admiring the beauty. Its little trumpet bursting forth with the magnificent news: Wonderful things are sent everyday; you just have to see them. He could almost pretend he was back home in Muncie, where the daffodils bloomed all along the front walk. Ma would always tell him to watch for the flowers, look for the robins, and wait for spring.

"Was machst du da?"

Of course, reality had to reassert itself and bring with it the harshness of his current situation. He jumped at the staccato delivery of the shout and he scrambled away from his discovery. His mouth pressed into a firm line as his hands went out from his sides instinctively.

Approaching him was Strausser, a broad stump of a man. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, searching the area for what was out of place - for what had attracted the young prisoner. Seeing nothing apparent, he switched to English.

"What are you doing here?"

Carter hesitated, finally realizing just how close he was to the tower, the fence and the infamous no-man's-land. "Nothing."

"You were looking, ja?" Strausser stepped closer, a hungry glint in his eyes; one Carter had seen enough times to know that he was on thin ice. "Blindspots?"

Carter jolted at the assumption. Sure, he'd thought of escape - what POW hadn't? - but he wouldn't be dumb enough to try something out in the open in clear view of every Tom, Dick, and Harry.

"No."

He hoped that sounded more forceful than he felt at the moment.

"Do not tell lies," Strausser said, glaring menacingly. "I will make you sorry."

Carter gestured toward the little bloom, saying sarcastically, "I was just admiring the finer things this dump has to offer."

He scoffed - forgetting where he was and to whom he was speaking as weeks of pent up frustration unraveled. "You guys just don't get it, do you? No matter how much the bitter wind blows, the flowers will eventually bloom. One day, before too long, the spring will come and winter will be just a fading memory."

This outburst had caught the attention of a number of other prisoners for various reasons. Some to watch Strausser kick the lad's teeth in; some out of concern; while still others were only too happy to have something exciting break the monotony of the day. However, they were taken off guard by Carter's statement. The metaphor wasn't perfect, but the message rang true.

Strausser, his English limited, only knew one thing: disrespect. He was being disrespected by this boy and that flower was to blame. With a grunt that bordered on a growl, he stomped on the daffodil, grinding it into the dirt.

Carter balled his fists, eyes flashing. "What'd you do that for?"

"Back!" Strausser ordered. "Away from fence."

But Carter remained in place, standing firm, though he couldn't quite say why. The smart thing to do, his brain chided, would be to chalk it up to another sensless moment of Nazi brutality. Yet another thing the darkness swallows.

"Back!"

Strausser shifted his gun from his shoulder and Carter could almost swear the kraut found the prospect of shooting him a pleasant one.

"Hang on," A posh British voice broke out from the crowd of prisoners. The wing commander pushed his way through the others and up to the unfolding drama. "What's going on here?"

Carter had taken his eyes off his opponent to acknowledge the newcomer. Strausser seized the opportunity and cold-cocked him with the butt of his rifle.

H~H

The next thing Carter knew, he was blinking up into the face of the wing commander. His face throbbed in pain.

"You've not mastered the art of staying out of the thick of it, have you?"

Carter sat up suddenly, taking in his surroundings in a panic. The dulag, he thought. The same gray brick walls, solitary toilet and sink. The uncomfortable cot.

"You're in the cooler," the wing commander supplied helpfully. "Luckily, Langstone managed to keep us out of solitary."

Carter rubbed his face and discovered a goose egg on his left jaw. "What…"

"Riflebutt." The wing commander said. "Strausser took a cheap shot while you were distracted."

He paused, flexing his right hand which sported a cut and bruising on the knuckles. His green eyes twinkled. "But he got his. Wing Commander McKellen, by the by."

"Lieutenant Carter."

"Pleased, I'm sure," He replied. "Would you mind telling me why we're spending a fortnight in the cooler, Leftenant?"

"He destroyed the daffodil."

McKellen stared at him, his mouth turning downward into a frown. "Are you quite well?"

Carter stood indignantly. "Of course, I am. Just 'cause you're wearing jackboots doesn't mean you have to step on everything, does it?"

McKellen's eyebrows raised slightly and his lips pursed. The lad wasn't wrong, but he wasn't about to encourage such reckless and potentially dangerous sentiments. "You haven't been at Stalag 5 very long, have you?"

"Two weeks," Carter said, crossing over to the sink. "I was at the dulag for a month."

McKellen took his spot on the cot, stretching out comfortably as he could on the rock hard mattress. "Give it a few more weeks then."

"For what?"

"To learn that sometimes it's better for all concerned to just rollover and take it. Live to fight another day, as they say. You don't happen to have any fags on you?"

Carter sniffed his contempt and turned on the tap. He splashed water on his face and on the back of his neck. I'd sooner suck a raw egg than roll over and take it from any Fritz! It just won't happen, he thought. And I sure won't just sit here either!

He thought back to his weeks at the dulag… 'For you, the war is over*', that's what they told him over and over. In the darkest moments - the ones where he was so scared that he could scarcely breathe - he'd begun to believe it.

Well, no more. That daffodil had taught him a simple lesson, one that he'd known all along, but in the last few weeks had forgotten: always try. Try to force your way back up through the dirt. Try to maintain and find the beauty, even when everything around you is hideous. And when they try to grind you into oblivion, come back even brighter next spring.

Perhaps the war was over for him, but only for this moment. When he got out of the cooler, he'd spend every waking moment planning how to get out of this place and back to this war. The jackboots couldn't be allowed to reign, not so long as he had breath in his body.

The End

Author's Note: It is my hope and prayer that this brightens your lockdown/quarantine as much as my daffodils blooming has brightened my last week or so. Have a wonderful, blessed day.

*This reference is from the poem written by an unknown POW, titled: For You The War Is Over.